


Outta Here

by maleficentWatermelon



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 05:02:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18242903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maleficentWatermelon/pseuds/maleficentWatermelon
Summary: every boris is just a little different, right?





	Outta Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my friend hannah](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+friend+hannah).



> wrote this on request sort of from a friend

It’s eerie, that’s for sure. If you were familiar with the term, you’d call it uncanney valley. Staring into your own eyes, but you know something is juuussst slightly off about the other you? Surely, that had to be enough to rankle even the best of em. Maybe even enough to throw off Joey.

You aren’t sure if that can be done, now that you think about it.

You were fairly new, weren’t you? Thrust silently screaming into a world of boards that sometimes bit you and left slivers of themselves in you, into a world that felt like it should be warm because of the lights and the temperature but was cold, hard, deadly? Yes, you were like a child, days old in people days and weeks old in dog years. 

But your childhood was only present in the numbers on the little card they’d given you- in your short life, you’ve already seen so much. You tower over Joey, over Miss Allison who you saw once. And you have a nagging feeling of being much older than a kid, older than you were meant to be in cartoons, don’t you? Besides, you already know that Joey is not an easily intimidated man, unless you’re quite wrong about the majority of humans.

You wander the few rooms available, lost in thought, like all the other versions of you. Some are older than you, some much younger. You do not speak a word to them, and you don’t think you would if you had a voice, either. You don’t know if it would be unsettling to hear your own voice replying over and over, and you don’t care to find out. 

Very little knowledge is available to you. You know each of you is different in some insignificant way, closer or further to the Boris that stares from the walls. Sheep Songs. You don’t know why he is so special.

You know Joey Drew is a dangerous man. You know the studio is imploding under its own weight, it’s own debt, its own harebrained schemes. You know you haven’t seen much of Bendy at all, but the little you did see of him a few days ago was really pleasant. You know how it feels to stare into your own eyes without the filter of a mirror or a photograph, uncorrupted by a glass pane. But you don’t know how he got to be so dangerous, how long the studio has been like this. You don’t know why you have been chosen to suffer and you don’t know where Bendy is, let alone Alice.

You don’t know what’s outside of this hellish world of taxes and paper sketches left behind for a curious dog to find, but you wish you did. As far as you can tell, that is what makes you different. You are the only one of your cohort of copies to want to leave, to live rather than survive, to get outta there.

It makes you cry when you feel that slipping from you, years later, when you’re forced into hiding by the Angel and the Demon. Although they’re all dead, when your identity hinges on a tiny, tiny part of you that sets you away from the others, it is almost murder to take that away.   
It makes you cry because what made you different has abandoned you to sit among the same, every day, the urge to leave faint and overpowered by your cowardice. So, you sit in your “safe” corner of the twisted, corrupted old studio and let the inky tears roll unchecked down your weirdly formed cartoon cheeks until you can’t remember what you’re crying, and you can’t understand why you wouldn’t be a cartoon, and you can’t remember what you forgot.


End file.
